


Wage

by yeaka



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Daddy Kink, Ficlet, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 18:00:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1034699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft would simply hand it over free of charge, but this is infinitely more fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Barawen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barawen/gifts).



> A/N: As requested on [tumblr by lestradeshandcuffs.](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/66233110274/i-love-your-fics-so-thank-you-i-know-you-said-you) But writing Sherlock, as much as I like the show itself, really isn’t working for me, so now I’m out. ^^;
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Sherlock or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Mycroft’s in his study—the underground one without the windows—when Sherlock simply strolls in, just like he always does down here. He isn’t _allowed_ to, of course; Mycroft doesn’t hire security to simply stand around and look menacing. They never seem to bother Sherlock. With a sigh, Mycroft puts his tea back down on its plate, pushing it to the side.

He offers a brief, put-on smile and lifted eyebrows. He leans back in his chair and crosses his legs, crosses his arms. It’s very rare that _Sherlock_ comes to _him_ , but that’s no reason to treat it like any less of an inconvenience. Sherlock walks straight around his desk, scarf and trench probably back upstairs at the door. Sherlock stops right in front of him; Mycroft swivels his chair with his foot. 

Sherlock thrusts his hand out, and Mycroft has to suppress the useless instinct to slap it. 

“Yes?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow as though Mycroft’s being obtuse on purpose. The purple collar of his button-up peeks out the top of his black jacket, complimenting his chocolate hair and making him look particularly striking. He looks like a man, but as always, he isn’t much more than a child. 

When Mycroft fails to offer anything for a good five minutes, (a precious five minutes that could’ve doubtless been spent on something much more productive than staring up and down his baby brother) Sherlock rolls his eyes and says in an exasperated tone, “Money?” It’s like it’s the most obvious thing in the world; how dare Mycroft not know that he wants to be rained in the cash he’s adamantly refused the last several dozen times. 

Mycroft says dryly, “Your rent’s been paid,” and he turns back to his desk. The manila folder beneath his newspaper has three files pulled out. As soon as he picks up the newspaper, Sherlock slaps it down with the hand not still midair. Brat. Mycroft sends him a short warning glare. 

Sherlock sighs. “It’s Christmas.”

“I wasn’t aware we were doing presents.”

Sherlock snorts. “Not for you. For John. Thirty should cover it.”

If Sherlock asked for it, Mycroft would give it. Really, Mycroft would give Sherlock just about anything. But demanding is another story. If Sherlock wants to play that game, fine. He can earn his money like everyone else.

Mycroft makes a show of putting down the ends of the newspaper, flattening it out, and turning fully in his wheeled chair to face Sherlock’s lithe figure. Sherlock’s hand is still held out, long, elegant fingers slightly curled. Mycroft re-crosses his arms, and he leans back in his chair to ask in a quiet, level voice, “I suppose if you were to ask your big brother for it like a good baby brother, we could strike an... arrangement.” He draws his eyes obviously up Sherlock’s body, particularly enjoying the wince the word ‘baby’ gets. Sherlock thinks he’s a good deal more mature than he is. 

Honestly, Mycroft expects a sneer and an adamant ‘no.’

He doesn’t expect Sherlock’s hand to drop. Sherlock lifts it back a second later, and it lands on Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft glances at it, then follows it up to Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s eyes are burning. 

Mycroft almost smirks. Sherlock’s willing to play, then. He isn’t quite smiling, but he isn’t frowning either, and his eyes fall halfway shut as he purrs, leaning down, naturally deep voice slipping into something sensual, raunchy, “And why would I call my _daddy_ my big brother?” When he does play, he’s never obedient enough to play by Mycroft’s terms. Has to make his own. Mycroft lifts an eyebrow at the odd choice but doesn’t protest. 

He brings his hand up to Sherlock’s to lightly trace the knuckle. “And now you’re asking daddy for money?”

Sherlock smirks. It twists its way along his pretty lips like some wonderful, horrible sign that this is going to go just the way Mycroft hopes it is. 

Sherlock takes one step around the chair, and Mycroft uncrosses his legs just in time; Sherlock hikes himself up and onto Mycroft’s lap. Mycroft grunts in surprise; Sherlock shifts closer. His long legs don’t have room in the chair, and it’s an awkward, tight fit, but his arms sliding around the back of Mycroft’s neck are too much of a distraction to notice. He’s so clumsy sometimes, so graceful now, inexperienced but seductive when he wants to be. He looks down at Mycroft, so close that Mycroft can smell the stale nicotine on his breath, and he insists, “I am. You’ve never failed me before, daddy, and I know you love taking care of me.”

Sherlock leans in closer, tilting so their noses won’t clash. He bucks his hips once—Mycroft isn’t fast enough to stop his own grunt of enjoyment. He wants to grab Sherlock’s hips. Wants to hold Sherlock down. 

He wants to fuck Sherlock right through those tight black trousers, brother or no, and he wants to make Sherlock bounce up and down in his lap like a rented professional. He wants to see those gorgeous bow lips beg him for something, anything, everything, and he wants to mess up that perfect dark hair and use it like reigns. He’s wanted this for too long, since Sherlock was too young, and maybe their childhood would’ve been different if he’d admitted that. Not waited for Sherlock, stubborn Sherlock, to deduce and drag it out of him. He squints at Sherlock’s eyes now, trying to read into them—how far can this game go? Sherlock’s not nearly so clever as he thinks he is. 

His pupils are a fraction dilated. His lips are slightly parted. Otherwise, he looks fine, and he tilts his head along Mycroft’s—the ghost of a touch—sharp cheekbones making Mycroft shiver. Fuck it. He gives in. He grabs Sherlock’s waist, digs his fists into the jacket, into the hem of Sherlock’s trousers beneath it, and Sherlock’s smirk grows. 

“I think you should give me that money,” Sherlock sighs. He rolls his hips again. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but it doesn’t matter—any time his crotch brushes Mycroft’s tenting one is perfect. He couldn’t give a decent lapdance to save his life, but Mycroft would love the attempt. “I’ve been a good boy all year, after all...”

Mycroft snorts. “You’ve been terrible.” Nothing but one big irritating brat. There’s a multitude of things Sherlock does _wrong_ on a daily basis, but Mycroft picks the one that bothers him the most. “When was the last time you paid your old man a visit? The last time you called?”

Sherlock’s eyes flash, and he frowns. He bucks his hips again almost defiantly, grinding into Mycroft’s closed cock until Mycroft’s head tilts back, a moan coiled in his throat. “I was busy.”

He’s not busy. He’s bored all the time. He’s got John for that now, doesn’t need to call ‘home.’ 

Mycroft has half a mind to spank him, if he really wants a taste of ‘daddy.’ The thought alone makes Mycroft harder. He lets his other hand climb to Sherlock’s waist, wrapping around it. “You’re still not a very good boy...”

“New years resolution,” Sherlock quips, “I’ll do better.”

“Is that a promise?” It’s a lie.

Sherlock rocks his hips so hard that he almost loses balance, grip tight around Mycroft’s neck. Their lips are almost brushing now, could with the slightest shift. Sherlock’s voice twists into the dirtiest tone yet, and he purrs, “I can be whatever my daddy wants me to be.” _Can._ Sherlock’s hands are gliding down Mycroft’s chest, flattening his suit, reaching his pants. 

Mycroft lets Sherlock pull out his wallet. There’s always something spare there; Sherlock takes all the cash. Mycroft lets him. Sherlock slips the money into his own back pocket, and he’s smirking like he won. He puts the wallet back. He pecks Mycroft on the cheek, just a quick, fleeting thing, and he whispers, “ _Thanks,_ daddy.”

He climbs back out of Mycroft’s lap like this is over.

He turns around. 

He gets half a step towards the door, and then Mycroft’s thrown him down against the desk hard enough to make the teacup totter and spill over.

If John’s going to get a good Christmas present, Mycroft will too. 

But first Mycroft jerks Sherlock’s head back to check—Sherlock’s smirking, and his eyes are saying, _‘knew it.’_


End file.
